


Relax My Beloved

by Mazarin221b



Series: Spider to the Fly [6]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Dom/sub, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Punishment, Whipping, almost-adultery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-02
Updated: 2012-04-02
Packaged: 2017-11-02 21:50:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,926
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/373710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mazarin221b/pseuds/Mazarin221b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Part 6 of my D/s series Spider to the Fly. Follows Come Into My Parlor, Dark of the Alley, Come Undone, Whatever You Ask For, and  World on Fire.</p>
<p>Just when things are starting to go smoothly, someone reminds Sherlock of his darker instincts. Someone who knows them very well indeed.  </p>
<p>
  <i>He wants it, the sharp stinging cut of a whip that gathers his awareness and focuses it into a brilliant point. He wants it badly, and he remembers those that had wielded it with grace and power.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Relax My Beloved

The first drop of the wax is sharp, sweet heat, the impact rocketing up his spine and leaving him gasping with want. Sherlock shifts, arches, begs until John chuckles indulgently and tips the candle again, trails fire across his skin and shushes his moan with a kiss. John blows the candle out, puts it on the table. Presses Sherlock back against the pillows and engulfs his cock with his hot, slick mouth and sucks him until Sherlock comes, screaming.

………………................................................................................................................................

Sherlock strides onto the crime scene with what he hopes is a barely-noticeable break in his step, his muscles aching from the position John had tied him into the night before. 

John had bundled Sherlock into the bath, after, scraping away the hardened wax and massaging his arms, his legs, his shoulders until Sherlock had fallen asleep against John’s chest, completely spent. “That’s it, my lovely, let me take care of you,” John had whispered and Sherlock let himself be pulled under, petted, pampered, and smug. John does so love to spoil him when he’s been particularly good.

Sherlock ducks under the tape and toward the knot of police at the other end of the alley. Just as he’s about to reach them a tall young man breaks away from the crowd and intercepts him. Detective Inspector Dimmock. That’s certainly unexpected—Lestrade had texted him the case.

“Thank you for coming, Sherlock,” he says, and Sherlock raises an eyebrow at the casual intimacy of his tone. Sherlock supposes he thinks he’s earned the right, considering their…past relationship. “It’s definitely right up your street. So to speak.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes and brushes past Dimmock to have a look. Ah. Yes, well, a corpse missing its face sort of is up his street, yes.  His interest must show because Dimmock leans in close, whispers in his ear.

“I’ve been waiting for one of these. Knew you wouldn’t stay away.”

Sherlock raises a disbelieving eyebrow. “I think you’ll find that my interest here is purely professional,” he says icily, and shoos everyone away so he can circle the body in a wide arc, eyes trained on the ground. Dimmock follows his every move, unintimidated by Sherlock’s annoyed sighs and dark glances. He continues to work, picking up bits of evidence and filing them away, and he finally steps back, ready to reel off a list of his conclusions, Dimmock is next to him, right at his ear.

“So it is true, then,” he says softly, and turns to look pointedly at the chain nestling in the vee of Sherlock’s shirt. “You let him collar you.” Sherlock swallows, doesn’t say a word. He and John had already decided that they aren’t going to discuss the specific nature of their relationship in public, and Sherlock making a scene about Dimmock’s incredibly intrusive statement wouldn’t help matters. “Seems a bit sweet, to me. I highly doubt a man like that could satisfy _you_. I remember how you like it.”

Sherlock bristles at the gentle breath tickling his ear. “You don’t even have the mental capacity to understand a quarter of how he ‘satisfies me.’”

“I bet he won’t even bruise that pretty skin, let alone make you bleed.” Dimmock’s tone is quiet, controlled, calculated to be seductive.  “You’d be amazed at what I’ve learned since you left. Let me show you.”

“Fuck off.”

Dimmock smirks, tucks a card in Sherlock’s coat pocket. “Just think about it,” he says, and walks off toward the street, Sherlock uneasy and a little rattled as he turns over the evidence bags to the forensics team.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

“Rough day at the office?” John says as Sherlock drops his coat in the middle of the floor and strides straight for the kitchen and a glass of wine.

“What? Oh, the case. Yes, the case was simple. Forty-five year old man with a psychotic break. Probably worked for his mother his entire life. Anyway.” Sherlock takes another drink. He’s nervous, jumpy, and John’s giving him an appraising look, the one he gets just before he…

“On your knees, my lovely,” he says, and Sherlock slithers to the floor with gratitude. “What’s got you so worked up?” John unbuttons and unzips, lets Sherlock nuzzle his way into his pants. Oh, the smell of him is instantly calming. Sherlock takes John’s half-hard cock into his mouth and sucks it carefully, slowly, savoring John’s guiding hand in his hair. He bobs a few times, feeling John grow hard against his tongue before taking a deep breath and relaxing, letting John thrust against the back of his throat.

It isn’t long before John has both hands in his hair, walking the fine edge of control as he always does, so carefully, so lovingly, and Sherlock wonders how to make him fly apart at the seams, to lose track of himself, to drown. He stutters in his movements and Sherlock prepares, pulls back just enough that he doesn’t choke when John comes.

He always kisses Sherlock’s mouth, after.

“Do you need more?” he asks, and Sherlock nods, ready to be led to the bedroom. John strips his clothes, has him climb up to kneel with his hands on the headboard. He can feel himself leaking against his stomach and he buzzes under his skin, need and confusion skimming along his nerves. John cautions him to leave his hands where they are and Sherlock knows what’s coming next. John hasn’t had time to prepare, so he has to fall back on something he knows, something tried and true.

The first strike of the crop sings through the air and lands on his arse with a crack that has Sherlock gasping. It’s beautiful, warming, but he needs more tonight, wants more, and he arches into the next with a wantonness that has John whispering sweet, dirty little praises that leave Sherlock glowing. He’s so glorious, is John, so much the other half of his soul, but Sherlock feels the need to walk the edge himself, to push, to see just how far he really can get John to go, so when John pulls back Sherlock reaches for his cock, strokes it a few times.

“Ah ah, no,” John says, and snaps him on the arm. “That’s your only warning. Focus.”

Sherlock can’t focus, can’t stop bloody thinking, and John’s hand on his hip burns his skin. He tries to gasp his desire, to communicate what he needs without words, and when he finally croaks “Harder,” John pauses, considers, and the next blow falls just a little bit harder.

Sherlock sighs. Yes, almost, almost, and suddenly John backs off, the interval between strikes longer, the stroke more measured.

Sherlock nearly screams aloud in frustration. He needs something transcendent, something only John can give him, and in a last bid to rattle John enough to give it, reaches between his legs, tugs his balls. John growls in frustration and pulls away.

“No, Sherlock,” he says sternly, and opens the bottom drawer of the bureau. Sherlock shivers. This isn’t what he wanted, not the cold, impersonal strike of the leather strap, but the burn of an engulfing flame that consumes him from the inside out.

The strap bites deep, and the five strokes John lays on his already-burning arse are painful, sharp and depressing. He takes his punishment without a word, and when he’s done, John smooths cream over Sherlock’s skin and pulls him down, wraps his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders.

He’s disappointed, Sherlock knows, and Sherlock nestles down into the crook of John’s neck and feels the guilt gnawing away at his stomach.

“What was that about?” John murmurs into his hair. “What did I do wrong?”

Sherlock knew he would take it on himself; he always does, even when he shouldn’t, and the guilt he’s feeling intensifies. He and John have always been in sync, John’s pleasure is his pleasure, an arrangement that’s always worked for them. And Sherlock wants John to want this, to demand something darker, base, because it won’t work any other way. He could ask, he knows, but he also knows John would say no, afraid to hurt him. Or, worse, try anyway and fail, and they would never recover.

“I was desperate, is all,” he says, and his mind aches with the lie he’s telling. “Too impatient.”

John hums, satisfied. “Is there anything I can do now?”

“Just  - I need you,” Sherlock says, and as John kisses his way down Sherlock’s chest, Sherlock hopes that’s enough.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

Sherlock crawls out of bed at four in the morning, his nerves singing.

John had made love to him, strong and masterful, and Sherlock had finally relaxed enough to fall asleep. But now he is awake again, his mind scattered, little tendrils of thought creeping toward something he told himself not to think of in any context.

He wants it, the sharp stinging cut of a whip that gathers his awareness and focuses it into a brilliant point. He wants it badly, and he remembers those that had wielded it with grace and power. Dimmock wasn’t one of those, but Lestrade was.  He was flawless at it, leaving a legacy of pain and blood that lanced across his back but never left a single scar.

Sherlock twitches into his coat, sneaks down the stairs and over the wall and into the park, settling on the grass. He stares into the sky, so brilliant that a few stars can be seen even in London’s glow.

He needs to get past this. He’s not who he was, not the same man who manipulated and cajoled and demanded intimacy from partners he never really cared about. Well, that’s not true. He’s come to care for some of them as friends, some of them are still enemies, and then there’s Dimmock.

Sherlock could see the confidence in his swagger, felt the attempt at control in his voice and his manner. He’d responded, damn it, had remembered how it felt to endure, to fight to maintain composure under the kiss of the whip. It was one of the few things he got from those encounters, a few, brief moments of respite.

But John … he’s not needed that from John. He can bring Sherlock to the edge of unconsciousness with ecstasy, turn his mind inside out with pleasure, direct him with such fine control that Sherlock is barely aware of it. He stills Sherlock with a look, holds him wrapped in the palm of his hand, and never abuses the trust Sherlock has placed there.  This last year has been glorious, and he’s never been happier.

But the memory nags, has lodged like a thorn in his mind and he can’t help but pick at it. Perhaps – perhaps if he simply got a single demonstration— no sex, oh God, no—he’d be able to get it out of his system, without making John feel guilty or unsure. Yes, he thinks, warming to the idea, he could try it once more, and if he still does like it, he can gradually introduce John to the idea. If he doesn’t, well, he can drop it and never have troubled John about it at all.

“Tell me more,” he types into his phone, and hits send. Unclasps his chain and slips it into his pocket. Then quietly panics as the realization of the most duplicitous thing he’s ever done in his relationship hits home.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

John wakes up in the morning to an empty bed. That’s not particularly unusual, though; Sherlock gets a few late-night ideas and never will sleep until he works them out, and John’s surprised he wasn’t woken up to participate this time.

What is a little more odd is that Sherlock isn’t in the flat. He does slip out sometimes, and John doesn’t really mind, but he wishes he could get Sherlock to leave a note. Or a text. Or something to let him know where he’s gone. Job like theirs, who knows what could happen?

_Where’d you bugger off to?_

_NSY. Come down when you can. Bring the Wharburton case file._

John frowns. Where on earth is that file? Sherlock had dropped it when he’d come in, frazzled and wound so tight he was practically vibrating. At least he’d gotten some respite, though he seemed much more demanding than usual, wanting more, harder. John’s worried he’d left a bruise, and the thought is troubling even though Sherlock never said the safeword.

He steps into the shower and stands there a moment, lets the hot water cascade down his back. He remembers back before they’d started, when Sherlock came home with marks, with bruises or cuts or rope burns, and John had been concerned, thinking his partners were abusing his trust. Sherlock claimed he’d consented to every act, but John loathed the evidence of Sherlock’s willingness to allow it. John knows he couldn’t ever mark his lover on purpose, to bring himself to the level of those that used, and were used by, Sherlock himself.

John shakes the troubling thoughts from his mind and towels off. He knows that if Sherlock wants something more, he’ll ask. John never has been able to deny him much.

…………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

“Ah, John, there you are,” Sherlock says when John makes his way through the bullpen to Detective Sargeant Wilkins desk. “Did you bring the – oh, yes, thank you.”

John hands over the file and Sherlock drops it on Wilkin’s desk, who rolls his eyes and pushes back. “I’m for a cuppa. John? Get you one?”

“Yeah, cheers,” John says, but his attention is arrested by the sight of Sherlock’s bare neck under his shirt collar. Sherlock’s not taken his necklace off in a year. Not even once, to John’s knowledge.

“What?” Sherlock says, irritated.

John pauses, considering. “Where’s your necklace?”

Sherlock’s eyes flick to the side for a moment, before he puts his hand in his coat pocket and draws out his chain, fastens it quickly around his neck. “Sorry, it got caught on a thread, didn’t want to ruin either it or my shirt. Just got distracted.”

“Yeah, you’ve been that a lot lately.”

“What?”

“Distracted.” John tugs Sherlock’s collar ends together. “Something we need to discuss?”

Sherlock frowns for a second, reaches for the file and flips through the folder, searching. “Nope,” he says, and pulls out a sheet with a flourish. “Back in a few,” he calls over his shoulder as he strides for the stairwell.

John watches until the door closes behind him.

“He always does love to be dramatic,” a voice says behind him.

John jumps, swears. “What the hell do you mean by that?” DI Dimmock is standing behind his right shoulder. John hadn’t even heard him walk up, too lost in his own thoughts.

“Well, he loves theatrics, you know, playing scenes and whatnot.” Dimmock leans against Wilkin’s desk, picks up a pen and flips it around his fingers.

“I think I’m in a fair way to know what he’s like, and frankly, I don’t need your commentary on it,” John says. John knows that Dimmock is perfectly aware of Sherlock’s proclivities, but he can’t believe he has the gall to speak of it in the open like this, to John of all people.

“Well, I don’t know. Seems you can’t give him everything.” Dimmock straightens, leans more toward John. “He trained me, you know. Taught me everything he likes, just how he likes it. And I’ve learned a few things since then, too.” He takes his phone out of his pocket, fiddles with it a moment and turns the screen toward John. “Tell me more,” is the text on the screen, sent last night from Sherlock’s number, followed by “My apartment, now,” from Dimmock, and “Thirty minutes,” again from Sherlock.

John stares, his mind whirling. That’s it then. Sherlock was distracted, searching for something more, and it looks like he must have found it. John’s about to lose everything because he’s just too afraid to embrace the darker side of their play, a side Sherlock had once thrown himself into with abandon. Well, he’s not going to give up that easily. He knows a few little tricks himself, and what’s more, he knows his lovely, all the way down to the ground.

………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………….

That next night John waits in his chair clad only in black pants, the lights dim and a brand-new whip coiled against his hip.

He’s nervous, twitchy, and he tries breathing deep, holding it for a count of three, then letting it out. It wouldn’t do to be too keyed up tonight, not when Sherlock would expect perfect control.

The whip cuts into his palm from the force of his grip, the braided leather slick and slippery with sweat. He’s been practicing this afternoon and he thinks he’s got it down – just how to flare the end for maximum bite, how to back off, how to curl the tail around a leg, an arm, a waist.

The door opens and Sherlock is standing there, eyes rapt and shining, but uncertain. He drapes his coat over the sofa and starts to unbutton his shirt without a word. The low light glints off of his necklace as he walks toward John completely naked and kneels, hands on his thighs and head bowed.

“Do you see what I have in my hand, my lovely?” John asks, and he’s able to keep his voice steady, somehow, despite the butterflies erupting in his stomach.

“Yes, John,” Sherlock breathes, and John doesn’t detect a hint of guilt anywhere in his expression, only fire and eagerness, a heart so trusting and so open it makes John ache.

“Aren’t you at all curious about what I’m going to do with this?”

Sherlock licks his bottom lip. “Yes.”

“Then ask.”

“How did you know? Why didn’t I…you knew, yet I never thought…”

John swallows thickly. “I will always take care of you, my lovely,” he says, takes a deep, shuddering breath. “On your knees, on the sofa. Now.” He won’t do this in their bed, he can’t.

Sherlock crosses the room in three strides and arranges himself on the sofa, but he doesn’t drop his head down; his back is tall and proud and John blanches.

“I’ve been practicing,” John says, and snakes the whip out in a long arc to wrap around Sherlock’s back and chest softly. “Not very long, you see, just this afternoon, and I imagine something like this takes some time to learn to do well, don’t you?” Sherlock nods quickly. “So I expect you to use your safeword, and I expect you to answer me when I ask you questions.” John flips the tails of the whip behind him, flicks it out to snap Sherlock right on the bum.

“Fuck,” Sherlock hisses, and sucks in a breath. There’s a tiny red wheal across his creamy skin.

“Do you understand me?”  John says again, and the bite of the whip lands across his lower back, this time, a bit of a miss but close enough.

Sherlock arches, growls. “Yes,” he says, and the word is controlled, bitten off.

John wonders, as he looks at Sherlock’s skin, red lines now criss-crossing his back, if this is what Dimmock did, if he lovingly laid lines of pointillist blood under Sherlock’s fair skin, lines that could have faded in the time since John last saw him naked. He tries not to think of it, tries to keep his mind on the here and now and the sharp crack of the whip as he lays it over Sherlock’s back and across his shoulder.

“Are you enjoying this?” John asks.

“God yes. Please, oh please, John, more.”

John can already see the raised skin under some of the marks, and he knows if he pushes much harder the skin will split, bleed, but his lover calls him, a siren song John has never been able to deny, not once, not ever. The things he will do for love of this man frighten him, but he’s willing to do them even so in order to hold onto that thing most dear, most precious in his eyes. John’s teeth clench as he readies the whip and the next blow hits home, blood trickling down Sherlock’s back.

The wanton arch and cry from Sherlock’s throat leaves John seething, his anger at the situation he feels forced into sharpening his resentment to a finer point. If this truly is what he wants, then damned if John won’t give it to him. John lifts his chin, letting his fury and fear and frustration pour into his body and when the whip arcs back this time he lets go with force and a flick of his wrist and Sherlock screams, drops of bright red again welling to the surface of his skin. John closes his eyes against the next impact and the handle of the whip slips in his grasp, sweat-slick and hot, Sherlock’s panting breath echoing in his ears.

John opens his eyes and stares, aghast.

“Vernet,” he whispers. “Oh Jesus hell, Vernet.” John drops the whip, sinks to his knees. “I can’t,” he says, and his fingers stretch to touch the rivulet of blood rolling down Sherlock’s hip. “Oh God, I can’t. I’ll fight for you with my dying breath, but I won’t do it this way.”

Sherlock  turns around unsteadily, blood smearing across the cushions and John thinks he might throw up. Dear God, what he did, how he felt ...he’ll never live with it. With himself.

Sherlock reaches out, touches his fingers to John’s cheek.  Oh, his eyes. They’re haunting, huge and dark and pained and beautiful, and John will remember him just like this every moment of every day that he spends in the penance he knows he must perform, in hope one day he’ll be forgiven. Sherlock looks frightened and John doesn’t blame him; he’s pretty well frightened himself.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” John says, and his head drops to his chest. He fights to keep his breathing steady, but misery and fear overtake him.  He takes a sharp, shuddering breath and collapses against Sherlock’s knees and wraps his arms around Sherlock’s calves. “Please, I … I …” He feels weak, small, worthless. John had thought he knew where Sherlock’s boundaries were, where his desire flourished, but he’d obviously made a very, very serious miscalculation. And now, instead of simply discussing it, John had taken a running leap over the line into outright abuse of someone who trusts him.

“John,” Sherlock says. “What’s happened?” His eyes are wary. Almost sad.

“Dimmock,” John says, and Sherlock’s eyes flare wide. “You could have talked to me, Sherlock,” he says, and the words choke him. “Did he give you what you wanted? Did you arch that pretty back for him, did you moan?” John scrubs his hands over his face. “Did he fuck you?”

Sherlock slides to the floor, grips John’s forearms, pulls his hands away from his eyes. “John no, you have to listen to me, I don’t know what he told you, but no, I never, I never went to him. I swear I didn’t!” He’s babbling in his panic, trying to get John to look at him but it’s too painful, too raw.

“He showed me the texts. You confirmed!”

“No, I didn’t. I…I considered it. I wanted to remember, to know. I knew you’d hate the idea, I knew you’d never want to do it, would feel guilty or, or, would look at me differently. I’m so sorry, John, I’m sorry I even thought it. Please. I’d never have, tonight, If I’d known – I thought you’d changed your mind, that...” Sherlock curls down as far as he can, lays his head on John’s bent knees, supplicating himself.

John’s flabbergasted. Oh, sweet Christ. They’re massive idiots, the pair of them, only doing what they’re doing for love of the other. Sherlock’s plan was completely misguided, yes, but there’s plenty of blame to lay on both sides. “Why didn’t you tell me? We could have talked about it, worked it out. Did you really think I’d be horrible over this?”

Sherlock pulls John up on the sofa, and John avoids the smears as much as possible. He settles with his head on John’s lap and John dabs at the cuts on his back with a tissue. They’ll need to be cleaned, bandaged. The largest, the last, is raw and red, and John will carry the burden of  this every time he sees the scar it will leave behind.

“I knew you’d feel guilty, that you’d think you were hurting me even when you weren’t,” Sherlock murmurs against his leg. “You do so much for me, John. So much that you never thought you could. I didn’t want to push you any farther. It would be selfish in the extreme.”

“No, Sherlock. I know you understand what I think of what happened with … your previous relationships. But you must let me decide where my boundaries are, okay? You don’t get to decide for me. I appreciate, I think, what you were trying to do, but that was—not the way to go about it.” John kisses his head, pets his hair. “I only hope you can forgive me for losing control like that. It won’t happen again.”

Sherlock turns over, meets John’s eyes. Raises a hand to John’s cheek and cups it gently. “I trust you, always. You didn’t really hurt me, you know. You never could.”

John frowns. “I’m glad to know that. But I still … I don’t trust myself right now. I think it would be a good idea to take a break for a little while. No, not from sex entirely,” he adds when he can see Sherlock ready to protest, “just from this, from play. Just for a while. I think we need to get to know each other again, Sherlock. Start from somewhere neutral.”

“All right,” Sherlock says, and sits up, reaches for his necklace and unclasps it. The weight of the silver feels heavy in John’s hands, wraps around his heart. “I want this, John. I belong to you. But I admit I was wrong. Again.” He slides back onto the floor and kneels beautifully, head bowed and John wants to pet him, call him ‘my lovely,’ kiss his pretty mouth and send him to bed. But he can’t, now. They both need to earn it, to earn each other, the proof of hearts that exist to beat in unison and if they make it, John knows exactly what he’ll do next.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………

They made it about a month before John took a swat at Sherlock’s wriggling arse as they were getting ready for bed one night. Sherlock had bent over to pick up his clothes and it was just _there,_ luscious and firm and John just couldn’t help himself and put a pink handprint on that pretty skin and Sherlock had moaned and John pulled him over his lap and that was the end of their break.

Stupid, really, the entire idea, John muses, as he waits for Sherlock to finish dressing and come out of the bedroom. They’re made for this, for each other, and the relationship they share is uniquely them, completely necessary for their happiness no matter how many times they’ve tried to screw it up. He wants so much more for them, something long-lasting and permanent,  but he knows where he has to start. John shifts on his feet, fingers the chain in his pocket, and when Sherlock steps out of the kitchen John quirks a smile at him.

“Come here, my lovely,” he says, and the relief in those words is palpable, a lightening of his soul he can feel down to his toes.

Sherlock inhales sharply and grins, approaches eagerly but before he can drop to his knees, John stops him with a hand on his shoulder.

“No, not that way. Equal, always. We’re getting better at this, you know. But this isn’t just what I want, its also what you want, and I need you to understand that. Okay?”

Sherlock nods. “I do understand. And I’m still sorry.”

“So am I. It was wrong of me to expect your obedience when I was angry, and I promise not to do that again.” The silver infinity necklace clinks slightly as John takes it from his pocket, loops it over his fingers. Sherlock smiles even bigger when he sees it, and he dips his head slightly, waiting.

“Hurry up,” he mutters, and John laughs, fastens the chain around his throat, kisses it where it lays against Sherlock’s collarbone.

“That’s what I like to see,” John says, and nuzzles into Sherlock’s neck. “And I have another little surprise, too.”  Sherlock looks on in open astonishment as John opens a box and pulls out a whip, a smaller one than he had before, but with a lethal triple-stranded end.

“I’ll be honest with you, I’m still not entirely sure about this. I’d never want to hurt you, or expect you to take more than you really can.”

“Have I ever given you the impression that I’d suffer willingly?” Sherlock says, eyebrow raised.

John smiles. “That’s true, but I think you’d agree we’ve done some strange things for love. But I’m still willing to try if you’re willing to show me.”

Sherlock nods. “It’s not something I want all the time. But yes , I’d love to show you how incredible it can be.”

“Then let’s have a little celebratory playtime, shall we, my lovely?” he says, and laughs as Sherlock bolts for the bedroom.

 

_Title from: Alex Clare, Relax My Beloved_

 

 

 

 


End file.
